How I Came to Run the Boston Marathon in Prison, on a Treadmill

This story begins in a prison yard in west Tennessee under the sweltering summer sun. I’d been locked up for nearly four years and was bored with TV, cards, and workouts. That’s when I started running whenever I was able to get out to the big yard, which was not often, due to frequent institutional lockdowns. Each time we made it out I discovered I enjoyed running even more.

While running in that prison yard the thought came to me: how cool would it be to keep running when I got out? Maybe one day I could even run the Boston Marathon. I have a great uncle who had run it, and I always admired that about him.

After five years in Tennessee, I was extradited to Massachusetts, which is where I’m from. In the new prison, we were no longer allowed to smoke. This was difficult. I had started smoking 19 years earlier, when I was 10. And there was no yard to run around, either. Instead, an old treadmill sat in the corner of the unit where I was housed.

Months passed before I finally stepped up on it, but I instantly fell in love. Because I was no longer smoking, I found myself able to run much better than I had before. Running on that treadmill became my new favorite pastime. And it was so much healthier than previous ones!

Each time I got on, I would try to run a little faster or a little farther. I got my mile time down to 7:20, then 6:31, then 6:10, and finally 5:43. I’d work on my distance, three miles today, then five, then 7.2, then 10.5. Finally, one day, I ran 13.1 miles: a half marathon! I loved it.

Keith Giroux on the treadmill

Andy Castillo

Some staff at the Franklin County Jail said they didn’t know how I could run for so long. They were required to run for their annual fitness tests and many of them hated it. Others told me how much they enjoyed running and we talked about the road races they ran outside from 5Ks to marathons. I loved these talks. They inspired me to keep improving.

I thought more about running a marathon, and I wondered whether I could run one on the treadmill. A clinician here unwittingly cemented the idea for me. She has been a driving force on my road to recovery from a life of addiction and criminal behaviors. She’s also an avid runner.

In early April of 2016, she told me she was going to be running the New York City Marathon that November. Her enthusiasm inspired me: I decided to try running 26.2 miles on the treadmill, on the same day as the Boston Marathon.

Prisoners don’t have internet access, so I had to ask around to find out exactly when it started. It turned out it was going to be in ten days. I had just over a week to prepare, and the farthest I’d ever run was 13.1 miles. I knew I felt good after running a half marathon distance, and felt like I could have kept going for longer, but how much longer?

I didn’t feel anywhere near in peak shape, physically, and I was nervous about doing long-term damage to my knees and ankles. I’d hyper-extended my left knee while working in the kitchen two weeks earlier, tearing something, and it hadn’t fully healed.

I also had been running in shoes that were too small, and that were not actually made for running. When I ran for long periods, both my knees would get sore and one of my ankles would end up swollen. If I hyper-extended my knee again while running the marathon, the treadmill would send me flying into the concrete wall behind me.

I didn’t feel ready. But I wanted to try. I was going to need help to pull this off, so I began to tell a few people about my intentions.

First, there was the security issue. I figured it would take me around four hours to run a marathon and I hoped to start at 10 a.m., which is the same time they kicked off in Boston. This would take me through a period where all inmates had to be locked in their cells for a head count. I brought the matter to my unit’s housing lieutenant. He was unsuccessful in gaining me approval to run through the head count. In order to have enough time, I would have to start at 7:30 in the morning, when our doors popped open for breakfast. However, we had a morning meeting every day at 8:15. I spoke to the lieutenant again, and he agreed to let me miss it.

Then there was the issue of running shoes. My brother had sent me a new pair shoes a couple weeks earlier but anything sent from the outside had to travel through several departments, and they had been held up. The lieutenant tried to track them down, but he wasn’t successful. I had another pair of running shoes in my property, but those had laces, which are not allowed inside the facility. My requests to use those were also denied. I knew I wouldn’t be able to run 26.2 miles using the too-small shoes I had. Finally, someone offered to let me use his shoes. I tried them on. They would work—they were still not made for running, but they fit better.

Four days before the race, the clinician who inspired me found out about my plan and helped get a water bottle for me approved by security. This would end up being critical to my success, since I couldn’t lift a cup and drink from it while running at the 7.5 miles per hour (8 minute pace) I hoped to keep.

The Friday night before the marathon I ran five miles. I didn’t run any more over the weekend. I wanted to rest my knees and ankle. By this point everyone knew what I was about to attempt, and kept asking me if I was ready, and if I thought I could do it. I was as ready as I could be.

* * *

Then Monday came. I don’t know what the weather was like in Boston, but it was a great day for running on the treadmill. I awoke early so I could have a small breakfast: instant oatmeal with peanut butter and a small cup of super strong coffee, which I had been advised against.

I was then locked back in my cell for morning count. I covered my knees and ankles in muscle rub, doubled my socks, put on my long green cotton-polyester pants and my laceless white Reeboks that were never intended for running. I stretched briefly. Then, after the doors popped open, I grabbed everything I would need, tried to quell the butterflies, and went over to set my things by the treadmill.

Giroux, in the cell where he spent five years.

Andy Castillo

Unfortunately this machine has what I assume is a safety feature built into it. It will not allow you to run for more than an hour. After that, it shuts off and all the information is lost. To work around this, I decided to break the run up into six segments. That way, I could shut it off on my own and restart it, and so be able to record my times for each segment. My first segment would be 5.2 miles, then five miles, and then I would run four segments of four miles each.

I taped a piece of paper to the face of the machine, beside where it displayed read-outs for time, distance, and speed. I was afraid that I would be too sweaty to record my times, so I recruited a friend to do this for me. Another guy volunteered to keep my water bottle filled.

At about 7:30 I stepped on the treadmill. I placed a towel on the handle beside me, and a cup of water into one of the bottle holders (the water bottle would come later). In the other holder I placed a small cup of salt, and my radio. I tied the excess cord from my headphones to a bar on the machine and turned the radio on.

I placed a pen and a handful of Jolly Ranchers in the middle compartment on the machine. I looked at the clock. It was 7:35. I hit the start button and punched the speed up to 7.1 mph.

I was not surrounded by thousands of other runners. The sun did not shine sweetly on my face as the crowd surged forward. There were no cheering throngs, or tree-lined avenues. Instead, to my left, 42 men and one woman were eating a breakfast of cereal and boiled eggs. A cinderblock wall stood two feet in front of me, and another stood to my right. But I was off. This was really happening.

The first segment started smoothly. It always takes me about a mile to fall into my stride. After this I become like a mechanical thing that goes until it is unplugged. Around mile 2.7 I started to feel blisters forming on my insteps, and became alarmed. I still have more than 23 miles to go, I thought. How could I be getting blisters already?

I ran the first segment without water, because I didn’t want to slow down to drink. When the distance read 5.2, I slapped the stop button, and my penman recorded the time. Then I restarted it as quickly as the machine allowed, keeping my legs moving in order to avoid being plucked out of my zone. I took a drink from the cup and wiped the sweat from my face and neck before diving off into my next five-mile segment.

As I ran, a few people popped over with words of encouragement. I’d remove a headphone from one ear to hear “How ya feelin? How far are you? You got this!” Then they’d wander off. I’d replace my headphone and return to watching the belt zip by beneath my feet.

Minutes into my second segment, an employee arrived with the much-anticipated ice-cold bottle of water. I thanked her profusely. A buddy and an awesome officer conspired to get a bag of ice sent down from the kitchen. After that, I was able to drink cold water while I ran. This was great.

At mile 10.2, I hit the stop button and my penman was there again to mark my time. My knees and ankle were holding up, with only mild discomfort. I was not tired.

At mile 12.2, the clinician popped in to check on my progress. She said I needed to slow down. The treadmill was set to 7.5 miles per hour, an 8 minute pace. It felt comfortable, and I’d run at much faster speeds. But at mile 13 I thought: She’s been running far longer than I have. I might do well to heed her advice. So I slowed down a little.

At mile 14.2 I began the fourth segment. I was feeling strong, but discouraged by the songs on my radio and missing the outdoor scenery. My cellie came by and encouraged me. He is hilarious. He told me I’m a beast. I felt like one right then, like I could go all night.

By mile 18.2, I entered the second to last segment. The blisters weren’t hindering my progress as I had feared, and I hadn’t gotten cramps, but a hint of fatigue was slipping in and I had slowed down. I saw from the clock on the far side of the pod that I was not going to make my four-hour finishing goal. I tried not to think about it.

As I began the last segment I felt pumped, but was beginning to gas out. I slowed down more often and for longer. I was also hydrating much more. I gave silent thanks for my golden water bottle.

At mile 24, with only 2.2 miles to go, my ankle was quite swollen and more than mildly painful, but it was not enough to stop me. Every time I slowed down and sped up again my knees threatened to give out.

Then, at mile 24.7, a crazy cramp developed in my right side. I grabbed it with my left hand and squeezed. I kept moving but it wouldn’t subside. I tried to beat it out with my fist, which only worked for a couple seconds. A small crowd began to assemble.

At mile 25.2, I was on the home stretch: the last mile. My knees had held up, my ankle hadn’t fallen off, and I couldn’t feel the blisters on my feet. I didn’t even feel the cramp. I was cruising comfortably as if through another dimension.

At mile 25.95, I’d reached the last quarter mile. I wanted to finish strong. I pumped the speed up to 10 miles per hour (a 6 minute pace) and sprinted. I watched the distance close to the last tenth of a mile, then the last hundredth of a mile. I counted down the seconds: three two, one. 26.2 miles.

I lowered the speed as my penman marked my final time. There was a small outburst of cheers and claps. I continued to jog slowly for a couple minutes to cool down and then I hit the stop button for the last time. I remember a high five, a few fist-bumps, and some pats on my sweat-soaked back.

* * *

We calculated the numbers several times to be sure: 4 hours and 13 minutes. The clinician and others told me this was a great time, but I felt disappointed. I had missed my goal. Everyone slipped away and the officer told me I’d be allowed to take a shower before being locked back in my cell.

I sat down on a stool, peeled off my socks, and discovered three black toenails. The blisters on my insteps were bigger than I’d ever had. As I stepped into the shower, the water stung my feet.

Standing under the warm water, I thought: I may have just accomplished the greatest thing in my life and I have no one to share it with. When the voices die and the faces disappear, I am alone in a metal box. I cannot shake this feeling. I returned to my cell and lay on my bunk.

Only then, staring at the ceiling, did it sink in that I did just accomplish something amazing. The time didn’t really matter. Running a marathon was the biggest goal I had ever set for myself. With so much against me but with many people offering support, I managed to pull off an outrageous feat.

I didn’t cross the finish line in Boston that day, and I didn’t have thousands of people witness it, but I crossed a finish line in my soul. My inner self was feeling ecstatic and was doing back flips! His joy was beginning to rub off on me.

It took me four hours and 13 minutes in the thirtieth year of my life to become a winner, to triumph over myself. Now I knew something other than failure. Now I could say I had done something to be proud of. And the next time, I would be running under the sky. I hoped running that marathon would only be the prelude.

* * *

After serving a 5-year sentence, Keith Giroux was released on October 24th, 2016. Three weeks later he ran the Myles Standish Marathon in Plymouth Massachusetts and finished 15th overall with a time of 3 hours and 24 minutes, which he wrote about here.

Other Voices welcomes submissions from readers. To submit your post for consideration, email us at rwdaily@rodale.com. Please write “Other Voices” in the subject line. Runner’s World reserves the right to edit posts for length and clarity. We will contact you if your post is being considered for publication. We do not offer compensation for Other Voices posts.

A Part of Hearst Digital Media
Runner's World participates in various affiliate marketing programs, which means we may get paid commissions on editorially chosen products purchased through our links to retailer sites.